Volare
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: The Firm and the Social Welfare Agency find out they will be working together. What will this mean for the Airwolf crew?
1. Chapter 1

AN: I don't own Airwolf; Mr. Bellesario does. I don't own Gunslinger Girl either; that belongs to Yu Aida and Funimation.

Volare

By The Lady Razorsharp

"What are they called again?"

Marella tapped the dossier in the folder. "They're called _fratello_, which means 'siblings.' The men are known as 'handlers,' and they're responsible for the girls' training."

There was a sheaf of surveillance photos in the dossier, mostly of a dark-haired handler walking along a street with a young girl with reddish hair. Michael picked out one of the photos and frowned at it; the girl, clad in a grey school uniform complete with pleated skirt and knee socks, was carrying an Amati violin case.

He chuckled mirthlessly. "There's no violin in _that_ case," he murmured, returning the photo to the stack.

"It's a Sig Sauer P90." Marella picked another photo out of the sheaf and slid it over. "Fully automatic, 900 rounds per minute, and only 6 pounds fully loaded."

The image was blurry and grainy, as if taken while the camera was moving, but Michael could clearly see the selfsame uniformed girl, only this time she was clutching a gun nearly as big as she was. Her features were only in profile, but there was no mistaking the determined set of her jaw. Her stance was that of a trained soldier, despite the bloodstain that marked the right sleeve of her sweater.

"Looks like someone taught her how to use it, too." Michael put down the photo of the girl and exchanged it for a snapshot of a gruesome scene: Men lying in bloody heaps; a room with walls pitted and pockmarked by gunfire; a shattered window with blinds hanging crazily from one corner.

Marella leaned against Michael's desk, crossing her arms over her spotless white suit jacket. "Our teams in the European sector have spotted other pairs of men and young girls whom they suspect of being _fratello_. This one was seen in Paris last week." She selected a picture which featured an older girl with long blonde pigtails, her Amati case in hand as she followed two steps behind a scowling, dark-haired man.

"Another budding 'violinist,'" Michael said thoughtfully. "Where did these two end up?"

Marella smirked. "Shortly after the sighting, the team lost track of them. Two days later, a crime boss on Interpol's Most Wanted list was found dead in a city park. The man had ties to the Padania Republic Faction."

"Could have been someone else," said Michael, playing Devil's Advocate. "Crime bosses usually aren't very popular."

Marella shook her head. "Half an hour before his death, the man was seen buying an ice cream cone for a young girl from a vendor in the park. When the vendor was questioned, he said that the man had done so because the girl reminded him of his granddaughter."

"Let me guess-the girl had blonde pigtails and was carrying an Amati violin case." Michael sighed. "And now the Committee wants us to get our own _fratello_."

"That was Zeus' recommendation, yes. Apparently he and the Committee are very impressed with their success rates." She crossed to her dark brown leather briefcase and pulled a thick blue-backed report from it. "Here's some light reading for your weekend-a more detailed report on the Committee's findings on the Social Welfare Agency's activities."

"Little girls with guns," he murmured, tossing the report on his desk. "I'm sorry I couldn't go to the meeting myself," he apologized, but Marella gave him an understanding smile.

"Since this project is still in the proposal stage, it doesn't take first priority. Besides, this was right up my alley; it's a fascinating project, even if it's ultimately a tragic one." She sighed, finally letting a modicum of pity for the young assassins into her expression. "I understand the need for young subjects; both the physical and psychological conditioning is easier to implant at an early stage. However, the side effects are devastating. The chemicals plus the cybernetic implants take years off their lives, and most don't live past the age of eighteen."

"Well, from what you've said, these girls were forgotten by the system. They're victims of violent crime, or have incurable illnesses that drain their families' finances. They were bought and sold on the black market as toys for the sick people of the world." Michael nodded at the folder lying on his desk. "Now they have a chance for justice and to live useful lives for as long as they can."

"And all they have to do in return is the Italian government's dirty work." She scowled. "I don't see how that's a fair trade."

Michael's eyebrows rose. "May I remind you that we have a four billion dollar 'jet chopper' at our disposal that does the United States government's 'dirty work' on a regular basis?"

Marella rose from her perch on the edge of the desk and restlessly walked to the windows. She crossed her arms and stared unseeing at the verdant countryside that surrounded the Firm's sprawling complex. "I don't have a problem when things like this involve adults like Hawke or Santini. They're free to walk away at any time-provided they leave Airwolf at the door."

Michael couldn't hide a smile; Marella knew as well as he did that the chances of _that _happening were slim to none, but he kept the comment to himself.

"These girls are _brainwashed," _Marella continued unhappily. "They're pumped full of performance-enhancing drugs that empty them of their childhood memories-both good and bad. They're handed automatic weapons and taught to care for them like favorite toys." She shuddered. "Off the record, sir, the whole thing gives me the creeps."

"It gives me the creeps, too." Michael collected the pictures and put them back into the folder, and then put the folder with the thick report and placed everything in his briefcase. "It'd be nice to think that children everywhere are allowed to be children-except we know better." He snapped the briefcase shut. "When do we meet them?"

Creeps or no, Marella was instantly all business. "Monday morning, sir. The head of the department and two of the _fratello_ are coming to meet with Zeus and the Committee at 0800."

Michael nodded. "And we'll be ready for them."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I don't own Airwolf; Mr. Bellesario and Universal do. I don't own Gunslinger Girl either; it belongs to Yu Aida and Funimation.

AN 2: Please forgive my Babelfish Italian.

* * *

"I still think this whole thing is crazy," said Dom irritably. "If you ask me, Michael and that committee of his have finally gone off the deep end." He watched his foster son pace restlessly over the pale carpet from his perch on Archangel's pristine white leather sofa. "String, will you sit down for just a minute?"

Hawke kept up his pacing. "I'm fine right here."

"You're wearing a path in Michael's carpet," the stocky Italian harrumphed. "His undoubtedly _expensive_ carpet."

With a shrug, Hawke stopped pacing and crossed to the sofa.

"Finally," said Dom. "You've saved me at least two hundred bucks on carpet cleaning."

"No," said Hawke, a wry smile playing about his mouth. "They're coming."

Dom got to his feet with an exasperated sigh.

The door opened, and Marella, Michael's beautiful assistant, entered the room. Her white suit made a fashionable contrast to her cafe-au-lait complexion, and her pencil-slim skirt and high-heeled white shoes enhanced her natural height and shapely legs. Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, her boss and the deputy director of the Firm, followed closely behind her, though his gait was marked by a limp and he walked with the aid of an elegant rosewood cane. He too was dressed in white, but the left lens of his gold-rimmed glasses was blacked out to both hide and protect the blind eye behind it.

Marella stood back as Michael led his guests through the door. Two young men—one dark-haired, one dishwater blond—walked into the office, each trailed by a young girl carrying Amati violin cases. Michael kept up his light banter as the group entered the room, but from their serious expressions, it appeared that Michael's easy charm was lost on the two men. The young girls remained silent and expressionless; both seemed to be unaffected by the conversation.

"Jose, Daniel, I'd like you to meet Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini," Michael said by way of introduction. The newcomers turned to face Hawke and Dom, and the young girls immediately followed suit, their faces still blank.

"Very pleased to meet you," said the dark-haired man in a soft, lightly accented voice. "I'm Jose." He turned to include the small, auburn-haired girl in a grey school uniform. "And this is Henrietta."

The girl stepped forward and looked up at Hawke, her deep amber eyes taking in every detail of his face and form. Hawke met her gaze without flinching, and after a few heartbeats, Henrietta nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawke."

The girl's voice was like the chirp of a sparrow, and Hawke frowned. How old _was_ she? Was this girl _really_ the same one who wielded the formidable automatic weapon in the footage he'd seen a few days earlier?

Dom's voice broke into Hawke's musings. "_Benvenuto, Signore Jose, Signorina Henrietta. Il mio nom e Dominic._" The words of Dom's beloved mother tongue flowed easily, and Hawke couldn't help a smile. Dom rarely got the chance to speak Italian-other than swearing colorfully at stubborn machinery in the hangar.

Henrietta's eyes lit up. _"Piacevole per incontrarlo, Signore Santini."_

"Looks like you've found a friend, Henrietta," said Jose with a chuckle.

Dom grinned. "She's a charming young lady."

Hawke glanced at the other pair of _fratello. _The raven-haired girl stood silent, her icy gray eyes intently studying the scene before her, but the handler was looking on with quiet amusement at the exchange.  
"Daniel Blake?" asked Hawke, remaining where he was.

The blond young man in the dark suit stepped forward, trailed closely by the girl. "Yes, sir." He proffered a hand in greeting, and it was only then that Hawke moved forward. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Hawke. I've heard a lot about you from Archangel." He glanced at the girl. "Rowan and I have been looking forward to working with you and Mr. Santini."

Hawke looked down at the diminutive assassin. She even looked the part of a schoolgirl, clad in a white blouse and navy blue vest and skirt. Like Henrietta, she wore white knee socks and polished penny loafers, and her curly hair was held back from her face with a simple golden clip. "Hello, Rowan."

"How do you do, Captain Hawke?" The girl's voice was lower and more mature than Hawke expected, and held none of Henrietta's childish lilt.

"Daniel and Rowan are going to be working on the Airwolf project for the next few weeks," said Archangel, limping over to join Hawke and the American _fratello. _"Jose and Henrietta have been training their counterparts, and they have graciously agreed to stay on for a little while as resources. If you run into any problems or have any questions about how the _fratello_ works, they'll be able to assist you."

Both Hawke and Santini had been briefed on the project, but with Archangel's announcement, it was official. Hawke suppressed a frown; Michael hadn't asked, he'd _told_, and despite Hawke's protests and arguments, the 'collaboration' was now a reality.

"Marella," Michael said with a glance over his shoulder, "why don't you see if you can rustle up a little something so we can all sit down and get better acquainted."

Hawke had to hand it to the white-suited team; the whole meeting had been carefully choreographed, and he felt a flare of annoyance at being made to play his part.

Before Hawke could protest, Marella confirmed his suspicions by dropping into the deceptive role of Office Lady. She smiled sweetly at the two girls. "Of course. I'll be right back." She left the room as the Airwolf team and the _fratello _arranged themselves in the sleek white leather chairs around the glass-topped coffee table near the windows. By the time the group was seated, Marella had returned with a tea cart complete with a flowered china pot and eight matching cups. A white-frosted cake covered with lavish curls of white chocolate rested beside the pot, and Marella set about cutting the cake and serving the tea with polite efficiency.

Hawke accepted his cup with a low word of thanks, and then shook his head at the offer of cream, sugar, or lemon. He took a cursory sip of the fragrant tea, and then set the cup and saucer on the table. "Mr. Blake-"

The handler smiled. "Please, it's Daniel. Rowan and I are on a first-name basis; she doesn't know me as 'Blake.'"

Hawke glanced at the girl, who was calmly stirring sugar into her tea as if she hadn't heard the conversation, and then back at her handler. "Okay, _Daniel_-how much do you know about Airwolf?"

Daniel wiped cake crumbs from his mouth with a pristine white napkin. "It's an incredible machine. From the dossier Archangel gave me, I can see that Airwolf is practically a self-contained army." He smiled. "It's fascinating. I can't wait to see it in action."

"Our Lady is one of a kind," Dom chimed in, gesturing with his fork. _"È bella, ma è mortale."_

"_Ah, così mi sento." _Jose nodded, resting his cup on his knee. "So I hear from Archangel_."_

"Let's cut to the chase, Daniel," said Hawke, his eyes flashing steely blue. "I want to know if your girl's going to freeze up behind that console. She's got to be on top of things if we run into trouble." He nodded at Dom, whose expression had turned serious. "Dom's an experienced pilot, and it took him six months to become proficient at the engineer's station."

"_Signore Hawke_," said Jose, his pale blue eyes glittering like chips of ice. "These girls have the capability to learn at a higher-than-normal rate, as a result of both the behavioral and the chemical conditioning the Social Welfare Agency gives them. They work with their handlers round the clock on small arms training, physical endurance, martial arts, and covert operations. Rowan is especially proficient at technical systems."

At the sound of her name, Rowan looked up at her handler, who smiled down at her like a proud parent. Hawke suppressed a shudder; he'd seen soldier-children with machine guns, but where they had had fanatical fire in their eyes, Rowan and Henrietta's were blank and cold.

"Jose's right," said Daniel. "A few months ago, Rowan studied a set of blueprints for a car engine for an entire day. The next day, she was able to disassemble and reassemble the engine from memory."

Dom whistled. "That's incredible!" He flashed a gap-toothed smile at the impassive Rowan. "If this _fratello_ thing doesn't work out, you could always come work for me!"

"How much conditioning does Rowan have?" Hawke asked.

Daniel cast his gaze back to the pilot. "She's in the middle range. She's quick to obey an order, but she's not mindless." He sighed. "However, the memories of her life before the Agency brought her into their program are gone."

"Gone?" Dom looked from Rowan to Archangel. "You mean she doesn't remember her parents, or what happened to her as a little girl?"

Archangel set down his cup and had a quiet word with Marella, who rose from her seat and retrieved a thick file from Archangel's desk. "All the details are in here," said the deputy director, as Marella handed the file to Hawke. "You'll see that the memory loss was something of a mercy."

Hawke flipped through the file, and his eyebrows rose at a few of the pages. When he was finished, he set the file on the table. "She's conditioned to obey you and only you. How's that going to work with me and Dom trying to teach her?"

Daniel turned to the girl, who was finishing the last bite of cake on her plate. "Rowan," he said calmly.

Instantly, the girl's eyes were looking straight into those of her handler. The hand that held her fork in mid-air was rock steady. "Yes, Daniel?"

"When we train with Captain Hawke and Mr. Santini, I want you to listen to them very carefully. I'll be there watching, but when they tell you to do something, I want you to do it as if it were me asking you to do it. Is that clear?"

Her chin dipped once. "Yes, Daniel."

Daniel smiled. "Okay. You can finish your cake."

"_Amazing_," Michael murmured under his breath.

Released by her handler's words, Rowan slicked the last bit of cake off her fork, then placed her fork on her plate and wiped her mouth daintily. She laid the plate on the table and nodded to Marella. "Thank you. It was delicious."

Marella smiled. "You're very welcome."

"No doubt, _Signori_, we do not need to tell you to exercise caution when instructing our cyborgs," said Jose, accepting a refill of tea from Marella.

Dom set his empty plate on the table. "What do you mean?"

"He means that they'll do anything we tell them to do-literally." Hawke narrowed his eyes. "If we tell them to jump in the lake, they'll do it without a backward glance."

"_Si,_" Jose continued with a wry smile. "One day not long ago, one of our handlers, Raballo, told his partner, Claes, to keep practicing at the shooting range until she could hit the target every time. The next morning, when we commented to him that we hadn't seen Claes, he hurried out to the range. It turned out that Claes had stayed there all night, trying to hit the target every time, as he had instructed her." He ruffled Henrietta's hair, and the girl gave a tiny giggle. "I myself made a similar mistake with Henrietta early in our training."

"The girls have an innate desire to please," added Michael, setting his empty cup on the tea cart. "It's much like how a drug-sniffing dog does what they do-it's a game of Pavlovian proportions." He glanced at Hawke. "It's what they're trained to do."

"Let's ask them," said Hawke, with a pointed stare at the girl seated beside Daniel. "Rowan, what is your favorite thing to do?"

The girl swung her gaze to Hawke's. "To help Daniel."

"Anything else?"

Rowan thought a moment. "Well, I like to paint, but that's only when I'm not helping Daniel."

Hawke turned to the grey-clad schoolgirl. "What about you, Henrietta?"

"I like to play my violin," said Henrietta. "But I like helping Jose best of all." She smiled. "All my friends like the work we do for the Agency. Hilshire and Triela sometimes don't see eye to eye, but she still likes helping him. Jean and Rico are a really good team. Angelica and Claes don't have brothers like we do anymore, but they still like helping the Agency."

Hawke glanced around the room at the silent adults, then back at the two girls. "And how do you help your big brothers?"

Henrietta glanced up at Jose, who nodded back. Silently, Henrietta rose and went to her Amati violin case, revealing the stark, deadly shape of her Sig Sauer P90. "With this."

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Dom's whispered oath. "_Madonne._"

"Well, Hawke," said Archangel. "Are you satisfied?"

For a long moment, Hawke stared at Archangel, eyes narrowed. "Doesn't matter what I think," he ground out. "I've taught dozens of kids to fly, and so has Dom. However, you and I both know there's a big difference between a Hughes 500 or a JetRanger and Airwolf." He sat forward, elbows on knees, and his gaze sharpened. "What I want to know is: Does the Committee trust them with their precious four-billion-dollar jet chopper?"

Michael sat back, a small smile playing under his moustache. "They've let _you_ keep it this long," he said smoothly. "Apparently the Committee thinks it's worth the risk."

"We taught Cait how to fly Airwolf," Dom pointed out. "That didn't take long."

"Cait's experienced," String corrected his mentor. "Neither of these girls has ever set foot to pedal in a chopper, much less something like Airwolf."

"Gentlemen," Michael cut in, effectively stilling the conversation. "As I said before, the Committee wants to go forward with this project. Airwolf is still in use by the Firm, as per the agreement reached between Hawke and myself. Of course," he said, turning to the simmering pilot in question, "if you want to turn Airwolf back over to the Firm, you need not be involved with the project at all."

Dom made a scoffing noise, but every eye was on Hawke. For a few moments, a tense silence reigned in the room. Finally, Hawke stood, his steely glare fixed on Michael. "You've made your point, Michael." He glanced up at Daniel. "You know where Van Nuys Airport is?"

The American handler met his gaze evenly. "Yes."

"Be there at 0600 tomorrow. Don't be late." He turned and stalked toward the door without looking back. Dom got to his feet and gave the group an uneasy glance of his own before following in his foster son's wake.

When the door had shut behind them, Michael sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. "This should be interesting," he mused.


End file.
